


The Dissipation of Heat

by avawtsn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Coming Untouched, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2384840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avawtsn/pseuds/avawtsn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He rose up again on John’s lap and let out at a soft, unthinking moan. John, barely moving beneath him, felt hot to the touch, alive and solid against Sherlock’s skin. But he wasn’t sweating half as hard as Sherlock, not yet.</i>
</p><p>Porn from the body and mind of one Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dissipation of Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Written and barely edited in the course of a couple hours. Definitely not betaed, britpicked, or otherwise approved of in any way except after the fact by those lovely folks who commented when I posted it [on tumblr](http://avawatson.tumblr.com/post/98769615774/its-been-a-while-since-ive-written-smut-heres-1-4k).

Some fat, unseen droplet of sweat made its way down Sherlock’s back. Felt like it dripped down the nape of his neck, curls clinging to his skin and trying to curl back up again with the moisture. The sweat felt cool as it made its way down his hot skin, sending a visible shiver through him. He rose up again on John’s lap and let out at a soft, unthinking moan. John, barely moving beneath him, felt hot to the touch, alive and solid against Sherlock’s skin. But he wasn’t sweating half as hard as Sherlock, not yet.

John’s hands moved from Sherlock’s waist, pads of his fingers tracing lightly, reverently, on that lean bit of muscle above Sherlock’s iliac crest, before settling a firm touch on flexing quadriceps as Sherlock rose up. He grunted with the effort, and let gravity push him back down onto John’s cock.

Sherlock’s own neglected cock was bobbing between their torsos, an angry dusky red. It glistened in the light from translucent precome that pooled at the tip and then washed down a maddening path over the lip of his foreskin, down the shaft, and disappearing somewhere south of a dark thatch of curls. John took his left hand and went to curl it around Sherlock's leaking cock but Sherlock slapped it away.

“No,” he said, hoarseness draining him of all his imperiousness.

“Is _that_ ,” John said, the amused curve of his mouth belying the hungry gleam in his eyes, “what you want?”

“Always want,” Sherlock said, rising up and sinking back down, letting the breath shove desperately from his lungs. “You.” A shaky breath. “This.”

John took a moment after Sherlock bottomed out again. They breathed together, hot exhales mingling between them. An almost calm moment before something steadily vibrated and threatened to pull off the walls inside Sherlock’s chest. He watched John close his eyes for a beat, lashes dark against his ruddy skin, before John opened them again, intent, and pushed Sherlock off.

The muscle burn as he pushed off spread like liquid bone-melting tendrils, half numb and half fire, from the tops of his thighs. The pain of it was tertiary at best, something Sherlock felt registering in some far away humming part of an upstairs quadrant of his mind.

The _hereness_ of John, his fingertips, his cock, the tops of John’s thighs that were slick with spilled lube and spread out by Sherlock’s arse. For a moment, it grounded Sherlock beautifully in his body, in the moment, before John slipped out completely and Sherlock was adrift, hollow, cold and cooling, touchless and bereft.

John’s lips found Sherlock’s skin. Thin but soft, soothing lips mouthed attentively at the hollow between Sherlock’s pectorals. John’s tongue followed the dip of his sternum and he kissed (soft noises in the quiet of the room) up to the sharp edges of Sherlock’s clavicle. John spread his fingers out against his chest and pushed him back onto the bed. Sherlock went willingly, pliable but still aching. Parts of him screaming _get on with it_ and _now_ , and others enjoying the slow tether, touch by touch, lips and palms to skin and muscle.

Sherlock found himself turned over on his stomach, John’s (small, surgeon, calloused) hands pushing his body into position. The slide of bed sheets against his cock was somehow unexpected and drew a gasp, but John’s grip on his waist, the tops of his hip bones, felt even better.

“Shh,” Sherlock could have sworn John said, but it could have been his blood humming or the sheets moving.

An interminable pause as John rustled behind him. Sherlock listened to his own heartbeat, focused on the threadcount, John’s hands, the weight of him. John kneed Sherlock’s legs apart and the cooling lubricant on Sherlock’s skin was wet and cold all over again, right on the inside of him, and then dripping down, past Sherlock’s testicles and down to the sheets. Two of John’s fingers pushed in, warming him up almost immediately again, but it felt lukewarm by comparison. But they were John’s fingers, searching, barely stretching, and when they found what they were looking for, Sherlock arched and found himself clawing at the pillow at the head of the bed.

And then the fingers disappeared and Sherlock felt John positioning himself over him. Felt the weight of John Watson pressing down into Sherlock’s hips, felt the solid heft of John’s cock greet the cleft of Sherlock’s arse like old friends and sink in like an old coat.

“This what you wanted?” came the words, gritted out, into Sherlock's ear.

John pressed in, bottomed out, and held it. All his weight on Sherlock’s hip bones, the heat of him pressed into the deepest part of Sherlock anyone had ever been, the hardness of him rubbing up against the inside of Sherlock like he belonged there (he did). For all that he’d been there before, done this before, it felt like a branding. (Like claiming.)

Sherlock moaned and it felt like choking. “Yes,” he thought he said. It sounded more like a hiss. He meant to ask for John to move, but the words didn’t claw themselves out before John half pulled out and Sherlock couldn’t say a thing if he wanted to.

John slid back in. Started a pace. Out and in and out in and in, and it was around the third hard, punishing thrust that Sherlock finally back online enough to hear his own hoarse yelling. He muffled it in a pillow, which made John push him straight into the mattress.

Sherlock tried to picture John’s face. Whether it was pinched, whether his eyes were closed or watching him. He wondered if John liked the expanse of Sherlock’s pale back or if the sensation was too much and he had his eyes shut, screwed tight, lost in feeling. If the sweat dripped off John the way it did off Sherlock and whether he liked the burn and stretch as much as Sherlock did or if this was just something he did for Sherlock.

The pitch in Sherlock’s head got simultaneously heavier and tinnier, like parts of him were leagues in altitude higher than the body being pressed down under John’s hands. The pace John set was hard and he was grunting with every thrust. Finally John bent his head down to Sherlock’s back — Sherlock could feel the ridge of John’s forehead digging into him — and the length of John’s body was spooned up against him. Between them, a sheen of sweat, mingling the sex scents of them both.

John made short uncontrolled thrusts into Sherlock until the ambient pitch turned into a salty hiss, and the muscles that so far were hardening and felt like they were building toward a sort of hysteria were coaxed into something sweet, something inevitable and intense, and letting go became a soft hill that Sherlock could see himself falling down. Sherlock felt very muscle in his body tense as he came into the sheets, pulsing long and violently until he didn’t feel sure he’d ever stop.

When he came online again, John had stopped thrusting. Sherlock found his arms curled up in front of his chest, propping himself up somewhat while his hips lay flat into a growing pool of wetness on the bed. He let himself get pulled to one side, John staying inside him all the while, and John’s arm belted itself, heavy and solid, across his stomach to keep in some of the escaping warmth.

Sherlock shivered.

John planted kisses down the nape of Sherlock’s neck, between the fold of muscle between his scapulae. Soft, tender noises from John’s lips, Sherlock’s skin, escaping into the open air of the room. Sherlock was cooling rapidly, leaking where John was softening and slipping. Sherlock’s lids were heavy. A whoosh of cold air as John’s arm disappeared momentarily and then a thin sheet drifted down and lay on top of them, the arm returning to keep Sherlock close. As if he’d go anywhere. Sherlock snuffled into the arm that had made its way beneath his head and burrowed himself against John’s good shoulder. Soft kisses continued planting themselves onto Sherlock’s skin, tiny and precious noises smacking against Sherlock’s back.

He wondered, again, about the shape of John’s mouth. The shape John’s expressive brow ridge would take, whether John’s eyes were open to look at the sweat cooling on Sherlock’s skin or if they were closed. He thought about it as he listened to the sound of lips on skin, soft muffled things he could feel and count and memorise, and drifted.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. <3 For more (possibly), to chat, throw me prompts, or bask in a mutual Benedict/johnlock fixation, find me on tumblr at [avawatson](http://avawatson.tumblr.com).


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